“I hate you,” the words seething through my mouth like molten lava. The same words I’d later regret.

Tears streamed down her face as anguish grasped her heart. My nostrils flared and I grinded my teeth continuing with my bantering rage.

I stared with such hatred that would even have caused the devil himself to tremble with fear. “It’s not like you’re my real mother, anyways.”

Her face revealed only tear stains but I could hear her heart as if almost shattering into a thousand pieces. I had broken my mother’s heart.

Although in truth she wasn’t my biological mother, she was my adoptive mother. She’d
always said that I’d grown in heart rather than her tummy.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Rachel,” my mother tearfully whispered. “But that will never change how much I love you.”

My heart longed to tell her how sorry I was and how much I loved her but my mouth refused to speak. Instead of speaking I simply walked away and never bothering to glance back.

I slammed my bedroom door loud enough to inform the world I was angry. For a moment my anger dissipated as I gazed out the window to see a sky painted with pinks, purples and paisley oranges. Certainly this was God’s crowing glory of creation.

My mother had always taught me to never let the sun set on my anger. I wanted time to relax and reflect upon the situation itself. I closed my window blinds and then I closed my eyes settling in for a night closed off from the rest of the world.

Then next morning I was awaken from a painfully deep sleep by loud pounding on the front door. Groggily I pulled myself from my dreams and pitied my way downstairs.“Yes, may I help you?”

For hours I sat staring at a blank and whitewashed wall aware of nothing in the world around me. The police said that my mother never suffered that she died instantly. They said she had beautiful expression upon her face.

Was I supposed to pity the dead, the living or the lost? Was I supposed to cry in rage and scream in anger? Was I supposed to blame God or blame myself?

“Hello Rachel,” a quiet voice interrupted my thoughts.

I cried, “Grandma. It’s horrible, she can’t really be gone.”

She held me close to her heart. “I know…. I just wish there was more that I could do.”

“It’s my entire fault. It’s my fault she’s dead,” I gasped for breath. “I told her that I hated her and that she wasn’t my mother. I never told her how sorry I was and now I never will.”

“Come with me,” my grandma whispered.

An hour later we arrived at a small deserted cemetery on the outskirts of town. She led me to a gravestone that read: Michael Wesley Beloved Brother and Son 1965-1987.

“My son and I had an argument before he died,” grandma whispered. “I have had the chance to tell him how sorry I was or how much I loved him.”

“Never let the sun set on your anger,” I cried. Grandma nodded in agreement. I pointed toward the nighttime sky painted with pinks, purples and oranges. We stood awed by
the beauty of God’s crowning glory. Indeed never let the sun set on your anger.

“In your anger do not sin. Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold.”-Ephesians 4:26-27

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You had me grappled in fear just as I perceived you were, when you got the news about the death of your mother from the officer. In my heart I wanted not to believe (just as you) that your mother was dead. Good job with your depiction of emotions, and holding my attention.

Congratulations, Jennifer. Your entry has placed 13th in Level 1. With so many entries in this level, you've really done well. The Lists for the Top 15 in each Level and the Top 40 overall is available in the Weekly Results and Highest Rankings forum of our Faithwriters Message Boards.

You wrote a story that gets to the heart of why we shouldn't hold onto our anger. We often can't predict when a loved one's life will end, and then we're left with a bitter pill to swallow from not being able to patch things up.